Have a Heart
by Rosalie1.0
Summary: Moriarty's words swirled inside Sherlock's head, sneaking into every little nook and cranny that presented itself. Being Sherlock, there happened to be a lot of nooks, crannys, and dark corners for these words to lurk and make home in. What did it mean? Had Moriarty simply said that to get into his brain? Possibly, and he had succeeded, but it had to be something more.


**Woohoo! My first Sherlock fic! xD Do you know what that means? Be nice! *jk* xD So, this is starting at The Great Game and leading up to the Reichenbach Fall, with maybe one chapter per episode...So...This is going to be a fairly short fic. I don't really know what it's going to be rated in the future, if I want heavy sexy JohnLock or angsty I love you but I can't afford to JohnLock. Anyways. We'll take it one chapter at a time. :) Please, please, please review! Tell me everything you loved and hated and things I can work on! :D Happy Reading~**

* * *

_"I will burn you... I will burn... the heart... out of you."_

_"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."_

_"But we both know that's not quite true..."_

Moriarty's words swirled inside Sherlock's head, sneaking into every little nook and cranny that presented itself. Being Sherlock, there happened to be a lot of nooks, crannies, and dark corners for these words to lurk and make home in. The "Consulting Detective" sat lengthwise on the couch of his and John's apartment, 221B Baker Street. It never changed. The apartment was as it always was. Drab. Boring. But there was a particular air about it this evening. Maybe it wasn't exactly the apartment itself, but the people who stayed there.

Although being held at gunpoint wasn't the most frightening thing in the world for Sherlock, and even less frightening to John, there was something about the insane psychopath Jim Moriarty that put both of them on edge. Maybe it was because he was the only... thing(because Jim Moriarty could not be called human) on the planet that could even think of holding a candle to Sherlock, or maybe it was just how he so willingly used people as his toys, his playthings, and then dismissed them when he grew weary... But there was something that had gotten under Sherlocks skin, as hard as it was to admit.

Simply being, Jim Moriarty had caused a ripple of effects. Suddenly the lifeless apartment of 221B Baker Street was exciting and enticing, full of life again. Thoughts circulated through Sherlock's brain like the blood pumping through his body, being filtered and re-filtered, concentrated, having new oxygen being exchanged for the carbon dioxide.

Through his thought process, though, the same sentence kept popping up... "...We both know that's not quite true..." What did it mean? Had Moriarty simply said that to get into his brain? Possibly, and he had succeeded, but it had to be something more. Sherlock sighed, coming up blank again. Although he enjoyed this new adrenaline like coming up for air after being underwater for longer than comfortable, the detective did not particularly enjoy his mind being someone's plaything.

Sherlock, eyes focused on the ceiling, hands folded on his stomach carefully, didn't notice when John sat in the chair diagonal to the couch. John looked about the room nervously, as he usually did wherever he went, taking in small details about where he was and the things around him. After a few moments, he cleared his throat, mumbling, "so... dinner?" Sherlock sighed, glancing over at his flatmate and then back at the ceiling. "Not hungry." John laughed quietly, the noise sounding rather forced, "you're never hungry." It became apparent to John that Sherlock didn't have any plans on talking about what had happened just only 30 minutes earlier by the pool. John wasn't having it. He needed to talk about this.

"Sherlock... can we please talk about this?" John was holding his gaze steadily on Sherlock's face, knowing that at one point or another the impassiveness would falter. "Call a cab." John was startled when Sherlock spoke, confused by his words. "What? Why?" Sherlock sighed, sitting up and rubbing the bridge of his nose, "we're going to dinner, aren't we?" "But you said-" "I am very well aware of what I said, but if you insist on talking about this, it would be best in a comfortable environment. Well. Comfortable for one of us, at least." John gave another forced laugh as Sherlock stood and grabbed his scarf off of the back of the couch he used to occupy. "That's not a very fair statement, seeing as how you're only comfortable on a crime scene... usually one that involves lots of blood, no fingerprints, and a very disgruntled Anderson."

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A short taxi ride later and Sherlock and John sat across from each other at a local restaurant. Sherlock sat with his hands in his coat pockets staring out the window at the bustling London traffic, John thumbing through the menu for anything he found appetizing. "What are you thinking about in that marvelous head of yours?" John asked, peering over the menu. "At the current moment, your chances with the lovely waitress who is checking you out. Blonde hair, green eyes, approximately 5'0" with a birthmark on her lower calf. She was married for 5 years before he left her-possibly for some sort of addiction or another woman judging by the way she glares at happy couples, suggesting a kindling hatred towards men." Before John could interrupt, words on the tip of this tongue, Sherlock was blabbing away again. "Although that would explain why she is making googly-eyes at you. Being an army doctor, you have an air of confidence that says you are approachable and trustworthy, so a woman who has obviously been harmed by the ignorance of normal men _would_ be attracted to you, I suppose..." Sherlock trailed off, John once again rendered speechless.

"...I'm not normal?" was all John could ask before the waitress Sherlock had just described walked over to take their- well, John's order. After John ordered, Sherlock began once more, "you're not as ordinary as most men; therefore, you aren't normal." A comfortable silence passed for about fifteen minutes. "Sherlock... I have something to ask you." Sherlock sighed, gazing out the window once more, "don't waste my time telling me you have something to say, just say it." John knew Sherlock's harshness was only because Moriarty had ruffled his feathers and John was asking him to talk about it. So, after gathering his thoughts, John asked the question he knew would send the detective into a whirlwind of thought. "What did Moriarty say or do that got inside your head?" _'So he had noticed,'_ Sherlock thought to himself. With another sigh, Sherlock slumped back into his seat and stared at John through blank eyes. "When he told me I had a heart." And then a couple things happened. John burst into laughter and Michelle, the blonde hair, green eyed waitress brought out John's food. Sherlock looked at John as if he'd gone insane, although he was pretty sure they were both slightly crazy.

"What on earth are you laughing about...?" After John had finished having his fit, he smiled, picking up his fork and knife and cut into his food. "You're plagued by the thought that Moriarty said you have a heart...?" And then Sherlock was talking in a rush, "it implies that I have a weakness. A weakness, John, that he knows about that I may not! He's taken my brain and turned it against me, twisting, turning, and pulling it like putty in his hands. It's disgusting! I need to find out what he knows now or it may be the death of me."

John sighed, "have you not even thought about who called him on the phone and changed his mind about killing us?" Sherlock let his head fall against the wall with a loud thud, "of course I have! He obviously needs us alive for this part of the game, but that really is hardly my concern..." John cut in with a muttered "obviously" as he took a bite of his food. Sherlock looked a little dejected by John's snarkiness. "...Because as long as we are alive for the time being, I see no reason to worry about what is to come if it is to come eventually. Moriarty will contact us when he is ready, and when he does... that's when I will 'worry'... Although, 'worry' is hardly the term I would use to describe my deduction process." John looked up from his plate of food directly into Sherlock's eyes.

"You know, maybe it would do you some good to think of others before yourself. Not once have you asked me how I am after nearly being blown to bits and here I am, asking you what's obviously picking at your mind, genuinely worried." John's words came off more brash than he intended, but he shrugged it off. If Sherlock was going to be harsh, why couldn't he? But, to John's surprise, Sherlock stood gracefully from the booth and reached for his coat beside him. He didn't say anything, but simply walked out of the restaurant and into the night. John sighed and finished his meal in silence. When he was done, Michelle came over with the check. "Get in a little tiff with your partner, did you?" The blonde girl had a slightly discouraging look on her face. "Oh, we aren't... I'm not his..." he tried to stammer out, handing the woman his money. She simply laughed. "It's okay, I understand. You'll see it eventually, though." With the cryptic message from Michelle and his change, John walked out of the restaurant as Sherlock had done a while ago. He continued down the street, thinking about what Michelle had said and why everyone seemed to think he was in a relationship with Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock didn't know why he got mad, but he did. Interesting feeling, anger. He hadn't felt much of it before, only traces that could be described as annoyance, but what John had said struck a chord somewhere within him. Sherlock felt mad at John. _'Why would he say things like that? I'm not that selfish! I'm just-'_ and then something clicked. John. John was the key that Moriarty was talking about, the key to Sherlock's heart. But how? And why? Sherlock asked himself. When the answer bubbled to the surface of his conscious, Sherlock tried desperately to shove it back down into the depths of his mind. John was the only person Sherlock truly cared for. The only person he couldn't bear to see harmed. The only person he couldn't stand to be cross with him. The only person whose opinion mattered, aside from his own. The one who made him feel like he did, indeed, have a heart. Because without a heart, how can one love?


End file.
